Dear Nobody, (Dear Sherlock)
by Cas-Wings
Summary: From the time he killed Carl Powers, Jim Moriarty wrote letters. They were letters to nobody entailing every aspect of his rise to criminal power; letters detailing his growing involvement and obsession in and with the life of Sherlock Holmes. When he finally returns from faking his death, he decides to send these chronicles to Sherlock, not realizing at the time it was a mistake.


_**((Some of the dates used at the beginning of the letters are estimated, and some are approximated from John's blog. I've tried to keep everything as accurate as possible to the story line, but let me extend my apologies here if I've left anything out. Also, this fic hasn't been Brit-picked, so more apologies there if anything is wrong.**_

_***If you're looking for Sheriarty fluff, this isn't the fic you should be reading.**_

_****If you're a John Watson lover, this fic may get a little cringey, as part of it is from Moriarty's point of view. (I adore John, but it was necessary to write this way for this fic.)**_

_*****I wrote this piece to really explore Moriarty's character. I believe he does have a soft side, a side he's covered from everyone for a very long time. I hope you enjoy my take on who he is deep down. Also, if you're not much for first person, don't worry, the third person is just down a ways.**_

_******Here's the cover if you're interested. :)br /**_  
_** 7759f7be2891dc405515009423b2b342/tumblr_inline_ **_

_*******Pour voir ce travail traduit en français: s/10854871/1/Cher-personne-Cher-Sherlock))**_

* * *

August 17, 1989

Dear nobody,

Carl Powers is dead. All that laughter, that mocking of my status, it's gone. You should have seen him, struggling for breath in that pool as the botulinum took over. I remember meeting his eyes as he begged for help, it felt so powerful. I laughed as he died, so he would know what it felt like to be laughed at. I've never been liked much before, and usually I feel terrible about it. But today, after taking that boy's life, after showing him what it felt like to be all alone, I don't feel so bad anymore. Emergency services ruled it as a drowning, of course. They're so stupid, can't see past their own noses. But then again, I suppose that's good for me. They can't catch me, they never will. Who would consider an innocent thirteen year old anyway? I'll work for this feeling again, I'll kill again. They'll all see, even that Sherlock Holmes boy who dared to question Carl's death. He intrigues me, and no one will ever believe him; the police think the shoes I took for souvenir are irrelevant. I'll let him live for now.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

January 21, 1994

Dear nobody,

Usually, I'll stay distanced from my killings. That's what I've done for the past five years, to be safe. I've built up a small group of people to murder for me, but that's been getting boring. So, last night, when I found a weak link in what I think I'll call my network, I went to confront him myself. It was such a thrill, to see the fear in his eyes when he finally realized I was who he was working for, and that I was willing to kill. I put on such a pleasant façade, he didn't realize his own mortality until it was too late. Everyone tells me I look too young, I'm too inexperienced to be a consulting criminal, but they'll all see. That young man certainly did today, when I shot him. It was certainly interesting to watch how much blood pooled behind his shattered skull after I stuck the gun in his mouth.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

October 14, 2001

Dear nobody,

I've built up my criminal empire to two continents and eighty-seven countries. People fear me now, they know when my name comes up that I mean business. I get requests everyday now, pathetic little ordinary people wanting me to rid them of their problems. Of course, I'll do it; the order will trickle down the ranks until I have someone to carry out the issue. It's good work, pays well, and honestly I can do anything I want now without getting caught. I have enough people under me to pawn my crimes off on them. And yet, even with everything material I could ever want, I find myself become incessantly bored. At twenty-five I am far superior to those around me in intellect, and in this am becoming lonely once more.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

December 24, 2005

Dear nobody,

Sherlock Holmes has come back into relevance, and has recently begun detective work. Somehow, he's found a way into local police stations to help with particularly tough crimes. Crimes, I should add, that I've orchestrated. He's become a nuisance, and a dangerous one at that. Luckily, I have the solution. In my observation of him, I find he becomes bored often, and acts irrationally when he is. Dangerous science experiments, smoking packs of cigarettes at a time, getting into fights at a pub over 'deductions'; you name it, he's done it. Which is how I've found my solution. All I have to do is get one of my people to offer him some form of drugs, something that'll make him useless but feel incredibly useful. Cocaine, perhaps. Whatever happens, Sherlock Holmes will be out of the way.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

May 11, 2008

Dear nobody,

It seems, that after three long years in and out of rehab, Sherlock Holmes has kicked his cocaine habit for good. Pity, that, it was such fun to watch how different his brain was when under the influence. It's kept me entertained for a while now, but now I find boredom creeping back in. Even going out to personally take care of someone doesn't give me a thrill anymore, the kill has become routine, mundane; the blood upon my hands no longer satisfies me. Although, lately, I've noticed watching Sherlock get back into crime solving is interesting. Perhaps finally, after all these years, killing him would be fun.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

January 31, 2010

Dear nobody,

Sherlock Holmes has gotten himself a live in. Although it's irrational, jealousy has found its way into my thoughts. Of course, I've done research on who my beloved detective has latched onto, as he never latches onto anyone. John Watson is his name. He's a former army doctor, has a bad case of PTSD, and, unbeknownst to him, is dangerously attracted to adrenaline. I've found that while I'm no longer bored now Sherlock is back to his detective work, back to providing me a challenge, I'm both jealous and lonely.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

February 3, 2010

Dear nobody,

John Watson must go. He's stabilizing Sherlock into some form of decency, he's making him dull and ordinary. So, I've decided to set up a case for my detective, one that'll hopefully traumatize John away from Sherlock. A cabbie has been located for me to use, and now, it's only a matter of time before Sherlock falls into my trap and goes absolutely mad for a few days trying to solve it. Lets see how John likes it when he sees what Sherlock is truly like.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

February 7, 2010

Dear nobody,

Apparently, John Watson is far more resilient than I gave him credit for. Not only did he lose the pathetic psychosomatic limp from the rush of living with Sherlock, he saved my detective's life. And worse yet, that idiot cabbie revealed I was behind the whole thing before he died. I regret not having snipers set up to take him out. However, despite my anger, I am also intrigued. This reveal gives me a new opportunity, one I haven't taken in a while: I can get up close and personal. What a thrill it would be to finally talk face to face with Sherlock. Thinking about it, about the possibilities, I don't feel as lonely. Maybe this'll work out in my favor.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

March 17, 2010

Dear nobody,

I've decided to hold off on meeting Sherlock. The timing simply doesn't seem right. Instead, I've set up a case for him using my connections with the Black Lotus gang. This one is rather difficult, so it may be interesting to see just how much my detective relies on John Watson. Relying on him is dangerous, really, because John doesn't seem to think. He's so free with the information about his and Sherlock's lives; he's even started posting details of all their cases on his blog. I've already read the first entry, titled "A Study in Pink". It was so insightful into Sherlock's everyday life, into his thought process. I need more information, though. Hopefully this case will give it to me.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

March 28, 2010

Dear nobody,

Sherlock has solved the case. It was over quickly, it seems, but I have learned some things. Although John seems content now to go out without my detective on his arm, Sherlock has become far too attached to him, and even purposefully sabotaged one of his dates. I'm becoming increasingly jealous and intrigued at their unlikely coupling. Again, I need more information.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

April 1, 2010

Dear nobody,

I've set up a string of cases for Sherlock to solve and follow, ones that will lead him right to me if he does it right. I know he'll solve them, I've given him the incentive to be a hero and save people. How boring. But, I confess I can't wait any longer. I've even seen how much John seems to care about my detective after I set up that explosion at Baker Street. I now refuse stand back another second. Sherlock is mine to study, to be close to, and I won't let that slip through my fingers, especially not when I can mess with his mind without him knowing. I've infiltrated his life by dating one of his coworkers, a nice girl named Molly. Although she's incredibly boring, she's useful, and, if I calculate correctly, will be with Sherlock tomorrow. That is, if my detective picks up on my clue about Carl Powers. He'll realize exactly who I am soon.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

April 18, 2010

Dear nobody,

To avoid suspicion, I played a sweet, innocent gay lad. It worked, and as I planned, Sherlock deduced everything I set out for him. I got to stand close to him, close enough to touch. Of course, I didn't, but what a thrill it would've been to watch him tense up in surprise. John was there, and was nice enough, but that still doesn't forgive him from getting so close to Sherlock. If I was Sherlock's live in, I would never disregard him as often as John does. I would pick his brain, I would study him, keep him occupied, keep us both out of boredom. But, of course, that'll never happen. So, this was the next best thing. The reveal later will be quite thrilling, if he manages to solve all of my cases. I'm confident in my detective.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

April 21, 2010

Dear nobody,

I finally got the rush I've been hunting for since Carl Powers all those years ago, and it was in the form of one Sherlock Holmes. Not only did I get to talk to him personally, I got to test his limits; I got to push John to the edge over and over. When I got to the pool where we met, I saw just how desperate Sherlock was to protect John, and vise-versa. It made me angry, more jealous than I ever have been to see how close they were, leaving me out to study my detective from afar. So, I went back to the idea I had all those years ago: I was going to kill Sherlock. Of course, John would die too, but what does he matter at this point? However, after receiving a phone call in the middle of my discussion with Sherlock, I decided to hold off on the death. I've received a better offer, one that will not only bring me closer to Sherlock, but will keep me entertained. I realize now how bored I would become after killing Sherlock, so mercy it is. At least, for a while. I'll have to see just how useful this "Woman" proves to be.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

March 10, 2011

Dear nobody,

Sherlock, after many months and extensive work, has finally solved the case of the "Woman". It was so interesting to see how he let himself become attached to someone else besides John, and I must admit it's given me something close to hope. Perhaps Sherlock will be willing to talk to me if we ever meet again. However, before that happens, I need more information. I've devised a plan to get myself "captured" by his brother, Mycroft Holmes, if for the sole purpose of gaining more information about Sherlock. If I can get to know him, I can finally show him how close I am to cracking him.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

March 15, 2011

Dear nobody,

Oh, the things I've learned about Sherlock. The Iceman was very naughty and gave me information about his beloved baby brother for minor tidbits of information about my network. Obviously, he has no idea what he's up against. I've learned most of what there is to know about my detective, William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Where he went to school, who he was acquainted with, what his dreams were, why he's so cold to other people, everything. I have all the knowledge in the world about my detective. And yet, I find myself growing bored now I have all the facts. Bored and incessantly jealous of John Watson. I want to kill him, I truly do; it would solve all of my problems. I can't, though, for if I did Sherlock wouldn't revert back to who he was before, he would shut down. What fun would that be? I'll have to figure out how I'll cut John out without killing both him and Sherlock.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

March 23, 2011

Dear nobody,

I've figured it out. How to crack Sherlock, how to take John away from him. Unfortunately, this requires his death. Over the past weeks, I've wrestled with the idea. On one hand, I want nothing more than to continue playing with Sherlock; our little game of cat and mouse had been consistently amusing these past years. However, on the other hand, I cannot go on in good conscience with our game knowing the blogger is encroaching upon it. It's not fair to Sherlock, or to me. He'll have to die, and then, only then will the final problem, John Watson, be solved. I've designed a few elaborate cases for Sherlock to solve, and by doing so will set the stage for my big conspiracy. I'll make Sherlock out to look like a fraud, a fake, and oh how wonderful it will be. No one will believe him, everyone will hate him, even John Watson. He'll have no one left on his side but me in the end; I'll be his final comfort. Maybe then he'll see me as I've always wanted him to.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

April 4, 2011

Dear nobody,

I won't be writing for a while. To begin my plan, to fix the final problem, I must show Sherlock he cannot stop me. I've devised a plan, a flawless exposure of who Sherlock really is. Everyone, at the beginning, will believe my escape is impossible, they'll take a breath of relief thinking I'm gone for good. Silly them, of course I'll escape. It'll certainly be a shock, especially when every other case I've planned for my detective comes together in the end. No one is safe now, not when Sherlock is in my sights. He's mine for the taking, and finally, I'm ready to snatch him up. The circumstances are perfect. I'll finally be his salvation.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

May 23, 2011

Dear nobody,

The trial I orchestrated has ended on quite a pleasant note. Not only did I frighten Sherlock, finally show him I am not a force to be contended with, I was able to speak with him. We were completely alone for the first time, and I got what I always wanted: a chance to play live in, to pick his brain, to insult John to his face without consequence. It was beautiful, really, to watch him try to figure out the riddles I was feeding him. He didn't realize when I said I owed him a fall, I meant a fall from life, a fall from the pedestal John places him on; a fall directly towards and for me. He hates dull, ordinary people, so I have to prove once and for all I'm neither of those, I'm worth considering, I'm worth more than John ever will be. I'm close to that goal, I can see it behind his eyes as he's figuring it all out.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

June 3, 2011

Dear nobody,

Sherlock is ordinary. Plain and simple, all his intellect has been wasted, there's nothing I can do now. John Watson has sucked every ounce of who he was away, leaving only the Sherlock he's molded, the Sherlock he's created for himself. So selfish, that man. How I found he was ordinary was awful. When I placed the final proverbial straw upon the horses back, when I revealed myself to be "Richard Brook", Sherlock denied and denied, as I knew he would. However, John did as well, and Sherlock stood right beside him for help. It made me sick, to see just how close they've gotten. John Watson is in the spot I should be in. He's one of the ordinary people, the people Sherlock hates, and yet, he's an exception. An exception because he's turned my detective to his side, to his boring ways. I know now my decision is the perfect one, I know now Sherlock must die. I'm not only saving him from John, I'm saving him from himself, I'm solving this for him. We're close to the fall now, we're close to our final goodbye. How interesting it will be.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

June 5, 2011

Dear nobody,

The fall went exactly as I planned. Although John didn't believe my conspiracy, he was still out of the way when it happened. It seems Sherlock, in fact, could separate himself. We had a lovely little chat on the rooftop of Bart's, too. I got so close to my detective. Of course, I explained why he had to die. I told him he was ordinary. I told him he had been my distraction for so long, and now he couldn't be. He understood, after a while, even as he made feeble attempts to defend himself. I knew, although I threatened his friends, threatened his _precious_ John, he would still try to figure a way out. So, I faked my death, plain and simple. If I "wasn't alive", he would have no other choice than to jump. People think a faked death must be utterly complicated, but with Sherlock so distracted it was quite easy. A few blood packets in my collar, a blank in my gun, and it was all over. Poor Sherlock, he was so distracted with his own demise he didn't notice the gun was still firmly held in my hand, although I fell quite hard. An amateur mistake, one I wanted to see if he'd make. It was so sad he did, but showed me he truly had gone to the ordinary side. Pity, that. However, with how satisfying the whole occurrence was, there was one thing, one aspect of the fall I wish I'd never heard. After I faked my death, Sherlock didn't simply jump like I expected him to. No, he called John, who had just been smart enough, apparently, to return to Bart's just as Sherlock and I were solving the final problem. I had to listen to him blather on, had to hear him make a weak attempt at confirming my conspiracy just as I told him to. Not only that, I had to listen to his emotional goodbye to the blogger. It was so difficult not to get up off the ground and push him off that ledge myself, just to show John he was mine to control, even in death. I didn't, though, and Sherlock jumped, leaving me to make my hasty escape. I've placed one of my men under the Iceman's staff to plant the idea my network came and collected my body. There will be no search for me. Everything went perfectly, and now, not only do I get to have peace that Sherlock is saved from becoming completely ordinary, I get to watch John suffer for all the wrong he did to my detective. I don't know when I'll write again, it depends on if anything interesting crops up.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

October 5, 2011

Dear nobody,

Sherlock is alive. It seems that all my disappointment before, disappointment that he had become ordinary was misplaced and unneeded. I suppose I should be angry Sherlock managed to trick me, but I'm not. I'm simply delighted he's alive, because now I know he's the detective I have always been intrigued with. John didn't change him for good. Speaking of John, it seems he's in quite a state. I never pinned him to be an alcoholic, but there he goes, again and again back to the bottle like his beloved sister. Must be a family thing. Too bad he doesn't know Sherlock's alive. Hopefully he never will. Sherlock, after all, is far too busy trying to dismantle my network. Poor darling, he doesn't know what he's up against. He thinks he's gotten so far, but really, he's not even made a dent. We'll see what happens.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

September 17, 2013

Dear nobody,

Over the past two years, Sherlock has successfully dismantled quite a large chunk of my network. Of course, because I've been in hiding, there was little I could do. Luckily, I was still able to set up specific pieces for him to dismantle, pieces that, as a whole, didn't matter as much as others. So, while we took a bit of damage, it wasn't crippling. However, this update is not why I'm writing. It seems Sherlock has finished with his work, and is moving closer to London with each case he's solving anonymously. Without me to occupy him, it seems he'll find entertainment anywhere, even if it means he has to forgo credit for the solved mysteries. What an endearing quality, he really is the detective he was years before this. I must admit, though, I'm worried. If he returns to London, he's likely to return to John. Hopefully, our dear Watson won't forgive him for all the pain and leave Sherlock alone, just ready for the taking. What an exciting thought, Sherlock willing to take another live in. Perhaps I should come back as well. We'll see.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

November 7, 2013

Dear nobody,

It seems I was correct. Sherlock has returned to London, much to the disgruntlement of one John Watson. He did look _so_ hurt when Sherlock revealed he was back, in the middle of an apparent proposal. That one I'll have to look into, as it seems John is moving rather quickly away from my detective with this new woman. It could be good, yes, but then again, it means he is happy. He should never be happy with what he did to Sherlock for so long, with how he hogged him from the rest of the world, from me. Selfish man. I'll be watching for developments.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

June 30, 2014

Dear nobody,

It's been quite a while since I've written anything. Not much has happened, really. Sherlock has been back solving cases, and John has been planning his wedding to the woman he was out with when Sherlock came back. Mary Morstan is her name, or so everyone thinks. I'll talk more about that in a moment. First, I'd like to mention the abhorrent way John has reattached himself to Sherlock, and Sherlock to John. It's like they're inseparable, glued at the hip by some sick sense of duty and friendship. However, there is a positive side. As I mentioned above, her name is Mary. Well, not _really_. She's not who she says she is, as I learned from just a bit of research from one of my top contributors. What a wicked woman, that one. Perhaps I could use it to my advantage. She does, after all, make John happy, and we know that just can't work. John Watson doesn't deserve to be happy; he's had his run already. Although I hold nothing against Mary, I've decided she must go. Somehow. I'll figure it out.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

August 11, 2014

Dear nobody,

John got married today. He looked so happy, standing there with Mary and Sherlock, as if nothing could ever go wrong. Naivety is such a beautiful thing. I've put in motion my plan to destroy Mary, who now seems to be the focus of John's attentions. He's been through so much pain and loss in his life, I'm quite sure this one will break him, leaving him unavailable to Sherlock once and for all. My associate, the one who originally dug up the information on our sweet bride, has agreed to be part of my plan in exposing her. I'll be working anonymously through him, for it's still not the right time for a reveal. His name is Charles Augustus Magnussen. Lovely man, really, he's so disgustingly evil it's nearly dripping from his skin. He's the perfect one to force Mary to hurt John. After all, blackmail is the best form of bribery.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

September 16, 2014

Dear nobody,

Sherlock has turned back to drugs without John there. I must admit, it's quite disappointing to see how dependent upon the blogger he's become. It's only been a month, and he's flown off the rails. I prefer to think of it as his own detox from John, as a way to learn to live without that constant presence. Although Mary seems to be keeping John away, I'm continuing with my plan to eradicate her by means of Magnussen. Sherlock has taken an interest in him, but only from another of Magnussen's victims. He has no idea I'm in the shadows, and he never will. Not until I'm ready.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

September 18, 2014

Dear nobody,

I'm going to kill Mary. Not by means of Magnussen, no, I'm going to take her life myself. Tonight, she shot Sherlock while trying to eliminate my threat of blackmail. No one hurts Sherlock unless _I_ give the say so. It just doesn't happen, I won't let it happen. I'm figuring how to do it now. More information soon.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

September 24, 2014

Dear nobody,

Once again, Sherlock has saved a life. He doesn't know it, but he's just single-handedly prevented my plan of shooting Mary. I suppose it was for the best, as she is pregnant. By revealing Mary's fake identity, twisted past, and current shooting, Sherlock has shown me this outcome is hurting John worse than anything I could've originally done with simple blackmail. Now John knows Mary shot Sherlock, who he claims is his best friend. So naughty. However, he doesn't know details about Mary's past, which means I have one last thing to destroy him completely. He's close, so close to breaking down and never returning to Sherlock. I can make that happen.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

December 25, 2014

Dear nobody,

Magnussen has been shot by Sherlock, in front of what seemed like the entirety of the British government. Sherlock picked up on the lie I fed to him through Magnussen, the guarantee of Mary's privacy and safety in exchange for the Iceman's laptop. He never would have seen through the rouse had Magnussen followed my order to keep his mind palace to himself. Seems he wasn't as cunning as I gave him credit for. Now, thanks to this utter disaster, I'm sure Sherlock will either be imprisoned or banished from the country. I cannot have that. While it would take him away from John once and for all, it would also take him away from me. I was fine with that two years ago, when I thought he was ordinary, but now, when I know he's everything but, I will not let him slip through my fingers. It's time to come back.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

December 27, 2014

Dear nobody,

It seems I have impeccable timing. Today, the day I have planned for my big reveal, Sherlock is being sent away. Hopefully, I'll be able to see his face when he realizes I never left him. I wonder if he's missed me.

Forever yours,

James Moriarty

* * *

December 29, 2014

Dear Sherlock,

Miss me? I've missed you. After all these years, doesn't it seem appropriate to go back to basics? You and I, just the two of us focused only on each other's work. I suppose this is what they would call poetic justice. After all, you shocked John when you came back, and now, I've shocked you. Maybe I've done more than shock you, maybe I've frightened you. We'll see when we talk. I do plan on meeting with you soon, we need to catch up, especially after you read these letters. All my life, I've wondered why I write them. Now I know. I've written them to finally show you you can't escape me, to finally show you how I fit with you better than John ever has. I've orchestrated your life from the time we were children, I've helped you every step of the way. I don't believe John shows that endurance for you, does he? But then again, he doesn't know how far from ordinary you truly are. Or maybe he does, now that he's seen you kill Magnussen. Beautiful work there, I might add. I hope you enjoy reading through these letters. Follow the numbers on the front of the envelopes, they'll guide you chronologically through them. See you soon. xx

Forever _yours_,

James Moriarty

* * *

Placing his pen down, Moriarty folded the single sheet of paper three times, fitting it into a waiting envelope with crisp precision. Then, licking along the glue of the mailing device, he closed it neatly and stuck it into a small cardboard box with the other already numbered envelopes. Once he sealed the box properly and ensured nothing but Sherlock's name was on the outside, the consulting criminal stood, approaching an employee who stood guard just outside his hotel room.

"See this gets to 221 Baker Street immediately," he instructed, smoothing down his expensive suit. The lingering taste of envelope sealant, he decided, left much to be desired.

* * *

It was half four in the afternoon when a knock came from downstairs. Fully immersed into one of his meditative thinking states, laying on the couch with his fingers steepled before his mouth and chin, Sherlock couldn't be bothered to move. However, the knocking persisted, disrupting his process. "Mrs. Hudson!" He shouted, not shifting an inch.

It was silent for a few moments, but soon enough the door was opened, ceasing the knocking to instead give way to muffled talking. Sighing, Sherlock shot a glare at the floor of his flat, practically willing the sound to cease. It did, but picked up again when Mrs. Hudson called his name.

"Sherlock?" She called, climbing up the stairs, the small parcel in hand. "You've got some mail."

At that, the detective's eyes snapped open once more, his mind coming to full alert. He wasn't expecting anything, nor did he have anybody who would need to send late Christmas gifts. Stomach sinking with the deduction that only took seconds, he hopped up and strode across the flat in seconds. Snatching the box from his landlady's hands, he stopped her mid sentence as she explained who brought it, examining the box quickly. She began to chide him, tell him he shouldn't be so rude, but before she could get far he'd already shut the door, focused on nothing but the mail in hand.

It was a medium-sized parcel, and when shook, sounded like it was a giant pack of cards. Nothing but letters, he concluded in record time, his mind running full speed as he gently peeled the tape off the top, sitting in the middle of the living room floor. As soon as he picked up the flaps to open the box, Sherlock knew he'd been right, for on the very top of a rather hefty stack of letters sat one that was different from the rest, one that had his name penned in the middle. The others were blank, simply containing a number.

Following instinct, Sherlock gingerly opened the one specifically addressed to him, turning its content out onto the floor. Only a sheet of paper fell out, folded neatly three times. Satisfied the letter didn't contain anything harmful, the detective picked it up, unfolded it, and began reading. From Moriarty, obviously. It talked of his return at first, but soon flowed into a sparse explanation of the other letters, one that caused curiosity and dread to swim in the pit of his stomach. Orchestrating his life? Guiding him every step of the way?

Sherlock was rarely puzzled or stumped when presented with facts, but when he'd read that part, he couldn't think of any way Moriarty could have done what he was claiming. It was impossible to be part of his life this whole time, wasn't it? Swallowing around his now dry throat, the detective picked up the envelope with a neatly scribed number 'one' in the upper right hand corner, tearing it open to read.

In a little over ten minutes, all the letters had been opened, read, and understood, much to the horror of one Sherlock Holmes. He couldn't breathe, couldn't figure how this was all possible, if it was true. Moriarty, his enemy, the most dangerous criminal mastermind the world had ever seen was obsessed with him. Yes, he'd known it before, he'd always known it in the back of his mind. But to what extent he hadn't realized until he read the letters. Strewn through them were twisted fantasies involving becoming close to him, killing John, eliminating his friends, messing with his whole life just to be close. Standing and backing away in sheer terror, the likes of which he hadn't felt since his time taking down Moriarty's network (which was apparently for naught), Sherlock fisted his hands in his hair, trying to think of any clues he may have missed in his past.

There was nothing. No obvious sign of Moriarty, nothing to give him away, and yet, he'd always been there. From the time they were boys to the present, the criminal had never left him alone. He had always been a part of his life, he had truly been shaping it and guiding him every step of the way, whether it was the cocaine or the cases, John or the Woman, Mary or Magnussen, it had always been Moriarty. And now he planned to meet up. He hadn't said if he was planning something else, he hadn't given any clue to what would happen when they met up. Hands shaking, Sherlock sat on the couch, not bothering to clear up the letters strewn haphazardly on the worn floor. Before, he was intrigued by Moriarty, entertained, even. Now, there was nothing left but disturbed horror, especially now he'd seen the sentiment involved.

Retrieving his cell phone, as he found no other viable option, no other way to decipher exactly what Moriarty meant by finally sending the letters, Sherlock sent a text to Mycroft.

Baker Street now. Lazarus has risen. SH

Mycroft arrived twenty minutes later, looking to the messy floor with distaste. However, the smug look didn't last long once Sherlock explained everything. Thinking over everything in the matter of a few seconds, the powerful man realized there was nothing he could do without more information.

"It's simply a waiting game," he said after a long silence, thoroughly disturbed and outraged. "Do refrain from doing anything out of the ordinary until he meets up with you. I'll have you monitored until then for your safety."

Then, before Sherlock could respond, Mycroft turned on his heel and exited Baker Street just as swiftly and quietly as he'd entered, determined to finally find a way to eliminate England's greatest threat.

* * *

The meeting happened two days later.

Moriarty stood motionless, hands folded behind his back in the dark as he stared out the living room window of 221B. It was New Years Eve, and Sherlock was out with John and Mary to celebrate. But, as the detective always seemed to, had left early, and was just getting home. Jim smiled at the sight of Sherlock as he entered the lower story of the flat from the street below, precisely when the clock began to strike twelve. Knowing he had to make his presence known, Moriarty, his silhouette illuminated in the pitch of the flat by the lights of London outside, began to sing. "Should Old Acquaintance be forgot," he began softly, slowly, as the step on the stairs creaked, "and never thought upon; The flames of Love extinguished," he continued, tone lilting with the melancholy verse as the door opened behind him, "and fully past and gone."

Sherlock tensed up the moment the singing began, his heart stopping for a moment at the soft voice coming from his flat. So, this was the meeting he had anticipated. Forcing himself to calm as he finished climbing the short flight of stairs, the detective placed on a cold, emotionless mask, opening the door as a stray thought crossed his mind. _Into battle_. "Moriarty," he greeted stoically.

Moriarty, at Sherlock's acknowledgement, turned around, face peaceful and open. "Hi. Happy New Year," he said, his tone almost taunting as he lifted his hand and meekly wiggled his fingers in greeting. On first glance, one might think that Jim Moriarty was a weak, submissive man, someone who could be stepped all over without consequence. However, if one were to look closer to inspect certain elements of the criminal, they would notice, to their horror, that his seemingly continuous niceties were only an act. They would see the glint of malice behind his soft eyes, they would see the curl of contempt in his sweet smile; they would see the true face of evil. No one ever looked close at first, though, which was why the criminal was able to operate as he did, close to his victims, even the geniuses, the observers such as Sherlock. It had always been such fun to mess with the detective. "I have missed you," he continued, not tripping over a single thing in the inky blackness of the flat as he approached Sherlock.

Resisting the urge to step back the moment Moriarty approached him, Sherlock simply folded his hands behind his back, trying to deduce anything about the criminal. As always, he remained unreadable, a terrifying mystery that never ceased to grate upon his every nerve. "I gathered that from your letters," he replied, the last word dripping with disgust to mask how disturbed he truly was.

"Did you, now? I was hoping you'd enjoy them," Moriarty murmured, circling Sherlock slowly to take him all in, letting his pointer finger run along the detective's suit-clad shoulder. "Hmm, Spencer Hart. You certainly don't skimp on brand quality."

"I've never been one to."

Moriarty smiled gently at the response, finally arriving back to face Sherlock fully. "How about we turn on some lights?" He suggested, sounding perfectly pleasant. "I would love to get a better look at you."

Suppressing a shudder, Sherlock instead gave Moriarty a look of distaste and crossed the flat, turning on the switch to flood the space with soft, yellow light. "I assume you'll be getting to the point of this meeting soon, then," he said as he turned back, the words more of a statement than a question.

Moriarty put a hand to his heart exaggeratedly, letting out a small huff of indignation as he sat on the arm of the couch. "You don't want to catch up? Why, Sherlock," he said, drawing out the detective's name as if to savor the feel of it falling from his lips, "I thought we were having such a wonderful time." Sighing, he dropped the act, picking at a nonexistent hangnail before looking to Sherlock through his lashes, his head still angled towards his lap. "But, I suppose you have questions. Go on then, daddy's waiting."

Sherlock felt his upper lip twitch in a classic sign of contempt, trying not to glare at the man who seemed perfectly at home in his flat. "Patience is a virtue," he nearly spat, not moving from the spot where he stood a comfortable distance away.

Moriarty simply laughed, the sound soft, serene, even, if not slightly sadistic. "In case you've forgotten, I am not one of the virtuous in this world of ours."

"Of course," Sherlock replied, feigning politeness. The whole conversation felt scripted, as if they were dancing around each other, back to the same game they'd always played. Apparently, the fun of which Moriarty never stopped having. "I'll get straight to the point then. The letters, I want to know more."

Finally lifting his head to fully look at Sherlock, a smirk curled over Moriarty's lips, his eyes darting around the flat to find the letters, which he noticed were back in their shoe box on the kitchen counter. "Oh. Those, of course," he replied nonchalantly, fiddling with a string on the lapel of his suit as if the conversation bored him. "I assume you've read them."

"I have."

Licking his lips slowly in thought, the consulting criminal stood, facing Sherlock once again to have a proper conversation. "There isn't much more to tell. You can see from each of them where I stand on everything about your life."

Sherlock hummed in agreement, hands curling into fists behind his back as he remembered every part about John, every insult and hateful comment. "You must know your opinion doesn't matter to me," he said suddenly, anger replacing fear within him as he stared at the man before him. "Or were you too focused on trying to be better than John to realize? A futile effort, I might add."

Moriarty scoffed, pain rising in him at being mocked. However, instead of feeling the hurt he knew was there at the words, he let anger take over. In two large steps, he was directly before Sherlock, eyes flashing with rage. "Futile effort? It seems you've underestimated me once again, Sherlock." This time, his words were not soft or sweet, but sharp like razor blades, the detective's name no longer savored but instead spat out like poison. "You see," he began, closing his eyes to take a deep breath, opening them back up to show his instant change back to cold and calculating, "my opinion does matter, it always has, you just don't understand it yet. I say I've guided you every step of the way, and it's true," he murmured softly, stepping as close as he could to Sherlock without actually touching him, "I have. Everything about your life involves me, I've always been there, and I always will be. I'll never leave you," he whispered, voice almost too soft to be heard, "unlike John."

Sherlock, at the words he could barely make out, couldn't resist taking a large step back, bile rising in his throat from a combination of anger, hurt, and disgust. He had always known Moriarty was evil, but never considered him to be insane. Now, he wasn't so sure. Everything was off, nothing was like before. This game was new, and was far more dangerous than all the others, for this one involved only one consistent variable: Moriarty's apparent infatuation with him. "Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side," he said eventually, voice cold and flat.

Moriarty suddenly gasped, reeling back in mockery of Sherlock's words, his hand flying to his own mouth. "_Oh_ dear!" He exclaimed, eyes wide with feigned shock. "The _losing_ side? Oh, _Sherlock_," he sighed, the words let out in a large huff of air, an almost sinister smirk tugging at his lips a moment later. "Weren't you ever told lying is rude?"

Sherlock tried to keep his glare at bay at the criminal's dramatics, bringing his hands out from behind his back to smooth down his suit. "Lying," he mused, looking up to meet Moriarty's dark eyes, "how interesting. So, you believe this apparent feeling of sentiment, of _love_," he spat out, preparing for the deduction he'd planned to put an end to all of it, "you hold for me isn't hindering you. You think it will never hinder you."

Not giving the other a chance to respond, Sherlock stepped forward once, bringing himself closer to the other man. "Wrong," he deadpanned, eyes flicking over Moriarty's face to properly get a handle on what exactly was going on. "You mentioned in your letters feelings of jealousy and loneliness, usually directly before or after you mention John. You wish to have the same type of closeness he and I have, possibly more. Obvious. But what you didn't consider was my say in all of this. Did you _really_ believe I would ever want you as my 'live in' as you fantasized so openly about? You must have known that would never happen. You must have known I could and will never see you as you see me. You're evil; I will never love you. To me, you're an enemy, a simple problem I must eliminate. You're nothing more than those cases you set up for me, something to be figured out and put to rest, away from my mind so I may move on with other, more important things. Things like protecting John," he sneered, meeting Moriarty's eyes as he leaned down slightly, their faces a hair's breadth away from each other.

"You really don't know, do you?" Then, after a sufficient pause to let everything sink in, Sherlock went in for the proverbial kill, too angry and insulted by everything that had happened to think about what may happen in consequence. "I _loathe_ you."

Moriarty had always considered himself to be calm, well collected. He could always handle himself under pressure, nothing ever disturbed or disrupted him. However, at Sherlock's long-winded speech, at his final crushing words, the consulting criminal was broken. Every feeling he'd ever buried through his infatuation with Sherlock came to a head at once, causing him to step back in surprise, unable to do anything but stare in shock and pain as the detective stood still and held his gaze. Shame, hopelessness, sadness, fear, self-hatred, it was all there, built up from the time he'd been bullied by Carl Powers to the time he wrote the final letter to Sherlock. However, what seemed most prominent in that moment was the loneliness. His fantasy of happiness and fulfillment was ruined, destroyed by the horrible things Sherlock had said.

Too shocked to respond with words, Moriarty no longer bothered to keep his mask up, letting it drop to reveal the frightened, sad boy he was all those years ago, before the killing. Ignoring the burn at the back of his eyes, he stepped towards Sherlock, too numb to even feel his feet beneath him during the approach. "That's where we differ," he murmured brokenly, bringing his hand up in a haze to cup the detective's cheek.

Ultimately, it was the warmth of skin under his fingertips that brought him back from the shock he was experiencing. Realizing a tear had begun to slip down his cheek, Moriarty pushed everything else away, rage rising in him like never before. He was back to himself, his eyes cold and dark. Smiling, the expression all shark-like teeth and anger, he stroked his thumb across Sherlock's cheek bone, leaning up close to his ear. "You shouldn't have upset me."

Sherlock watched Moriarty unravel like string, the criminal's every move and expression new to him, something he'd never seen before. He was a detective, and therefore saw different levels of human pain in his day to day life. However, never before had he seen such a hurt, vulnerable, utterly broken expression as the one Moriarty wore as he approached him. Forcing himself to stay still at the touch, despite how it sent a shiver down his spine, Sherlock watched the man before him closely, fear curling in his stomach the instant the criminal came back to being himself. In a fraction of a second, the pain was replaced by anger, the broken frown replaced by a sadistic smile, the trembling words replaced by a cold and angry threat.

Trying to keep his fear at bay, Sherlock stood still, eyes trained on Moriarty as he suddenly headed for the front door. "And what is that supposed to mean?" He asked, voice as stiff as his posture.

Moriarty's hand paused just above the door knob at the question. Not turning to answer it, he looked to a small scratch in the wood before him, a single sentence falling from his lips.

"It means we're back to square one."

p


End file.
